a pianist's monologue

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE DAYS AGAIN. The kind of days when blinding daylight magnifies every shadow of an almost forgotten memory. And once again, I was helpless against your ghost that should’ve departed to the afterlife many moons ago. But still you managed to linger in the air I breathe, stuck to my lungs, exhaled through my skin. You just won’t let go.

I suddenly found myself sitting by my withered piano, a side of my face on the keys, while I lazily played a tune with one hand. It was our song. I remembered every note. It’s the meaning behind them that I couldn’t remember. It didn’t make sense anymore. No matter how beautifully the notes aligned themselves, and how perfectly I struck the keys, the outcome was nothing but noise; just a series of unintelligible constellation of sounds that screamed of despair and regret. It was once the most beautiful song, and now it’s like hearing fingernails wailing against a chalk board. And yet, the search for meaning beyond the sounds kept me going, hoping that if I found something that made sense, like happiness, then all the bitterness that was tormenting my spirit would fade just like how I vanished from your heart.

The sun was angry and my room was overflowing with its light, almost scalding me. The humid air invoked the sweat out of my pores, flowing like small salty rivers. I continued playing the song I once loved and now hated so much as blades of the fan whirred, sending dust and air that played with the locks of my hair, warming my face. But I couldn’t get myself to stop as tears ran away from these eyes that knew every inch of your face so well. Pain comes with every chord, penetrating knives sliding through me. But a couple more songs wouldn’t hurt as much as they did before.

I languidly continued to play the melancholic notes, hanging over me like falling flies desperate to fly. As the inferno within the four walls of my room consumed me I remembered you and your broken voice that broke my heart, hoping the noise I was making could obscure the endless echo in my head of the ugliest truth you spat on my face turning into a lasting ugly mask. Just a couple more songs and I will no longer wish the air kissing my face is not your lips but just air; cool and invigorating, the way it’s supposed to be and total opposite of your existence had caused my life.

The sun will set soon. And when the darkness takes over, every light will at last be amplified, along with silence, and hope that will struggle to kindle its own fire against the coldness of the night.

. . .

I woke up very late one day, the sun peeking through my window. The heat woke me up. And then this image of a man sitting by piano flashed in my head. The gears turned, reeling words in my head. It’s curious how inspiration hits you. It was very unpredictable. I tried to establish a contrast between light and dark. The room filled with daylight against the darkness the man was battling inside.

There are places in a man’s heart that even light couldn’t touch.